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knacklemariott.east

The Knacklemariott

The Deceit of Achilles  

Book I by .east

"the end of the world, might just be the beginning."

enigmatic gothic- meets cyber-futurism

coming soon

the knacklemariott- Book I The Deceit of Achilles

.This is What is Known, This is what is Not.

 

In the Beginning, you must understand, there was absolutely nothing, anywhere. Beginnings often start like that, a whole lot of simplific absurdities, forming one singular conglomerate that will, in time, grow, and stretch, and mutilate, into a singularity that winds about, and forms the fabric of reality. This story occurs in one of those such mutilations. Let us breathe, and settle, like the sediment hugging the riverbed, for though time, for you, exists as focal points; as a past; present, and future. To me, it is not one singular line, but multiple: crisscrossing, and zigzagging, sorting themselves into their futures, and  destinies. It is looking upon a Grandfather, and seeing the mark his eventual Grandson will have upon the world; two sides of one coin of the machine of time; constantly in fluctuation; continuously in motion. This is the price I pay to watch. The pride, and the grief, as birth, and death, occur as one. 

Time, the very first simplific absurdity to ever form such a conglomerate never rests, it is infused in everything, and everyone. Time lurks in you, right now. You are, as of right now, the youngest you will ever be. Even just by reading these words, you have aged, and you can never go back to how young you were when this began, nor can you flash forward to how old you will be, when all is said and done, and our time here is over. Time is one of those things that is everything, and nothing, a thing we barely understand, and yet… each morning, the cycle of dawn, controls you. It tells you how to live, where to be, at what time, and when. Time is everything, and nothing, and both beloved, and despised in equal measure, by the creatures of the world, yet, indisputably, heralded as living under the Grace of the All. It exists as naught but blank slates, yet to be marked by neither quill nor sword of mankind. And even when there was nothing but Nothing, Time remembers, for Time was, and Time always shall be. And when we return to Nothing, once again,: Time will remain. 

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